


Extended Scenes from Sherlock's Little Blog

by Hobbitrocious



Series: Sherlock's Little Blog [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ABDL, Age Play, Angst and Humor, Crying, Daddy John, Diapers, Ficlet Collection, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incontinence, Infantilism, Little Headspace, M/M, Mental Regression, Modern Era, Omorashi, References to Depression, Sherlock is a Brat, Wetting, male anorexia, potty training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extended scenes from the fic "Sherlock's Little Blog". Tags may be added with future chapters, which may not appear in chronological order according to the Blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Toilet Stupid.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock's Little Blog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517716) by [Hobbitrocious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious). 



> There are many instances now in "Sherlock's Little Blog" where a scene I've had fully developed in my head will get boiled down to a mere sentence or two because I can't justify Sherlock going into detail or can't fit it in without it reading OOC. So this supplemental is for the scenes where Sherlock's scant first-person narrative really doesn't cut it. Kind of a behind-the-scenes fic. Or series, as each chapter will sort of be its own oneshot.
> 
> I considered a separate blog fic for John to fill in the blanks from Sherlock's, but I think that would end with Sherlock hacking / erasing certain posts, and without constant explanation that would probably just get confusing. Also, I hate arguing with myself. I do it too often already.
> 
> So omnipotent third-person narration it is. I hope you enjoy it! I may end up including some blog excerpts for John here too, not sure yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 here corresponds to "Chapter 9: 20 March 2016" of Sherlock's Little Blog. Future chapters might not 'occur' in consecutive order here like they do in the Blog.

"Time to use the potty, Sherlock." John set his book aside and stood, ready to reinforce that command.

Sherlock frowned behind the kitchen microscope. "What? No."

John sighed. "Yes. I can tell you need to go. Come on. Whatever it is you're looking at will wait for you."

John went and hovered by Sherlock's chair, where, predictably, the detective stayed firmly planted and engrossed in the microscope.

"Hurry up." John tried another tactic, "You don't want your feet to swell, do you?"

Sherlock turned his body just far enough to shoot John a veiled _how stupid are you_ look and said, "I don't have a heart condition. _You_ should already know oedema is a blood problem. _Not_ a urine problem."

He turned back and adjusted the lens magnification.

John leaned his hands on the back of the chair and clarified, "Do you know what happens to your kidneys when you constantly hold it in? You compromise them, and then you do get a heart condition."

"Mm... Not necessarily true. Indian ascetics--"

"You are not an Indian ascetic. Get up and go potty."

"In a minute."

John's tone went from firm sternness to audibly clenched teeth. "No, _now_. Your 'in a minute' means three hours from now, and we both know it. Up."

Sherlock ignored him again.

John was ready to just whip the chair out from under him and drag him to the bathroom when he thought of something else.

Crossing his arms, he asked pointedly, "Sherlock... Tell me what my laptop password is."

Immediately jumping to his own defence, Sherlock blurted, "I haven't touched it. It's still..." He turned once more to glare in a way that John knew meant he was simultaneously impressed with John's sneakiness and mortified he'd walked right into it. "Oh."

John's latest password was still set to ' _nextisaspanking_ ', and had been ever since the incident where Sherlock changed it to the impossible ' _Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious_ ' and refused to tell John until John - Daddy - had resorted to a slightly milder punishment.

"Yes, 'Oh'," John mimicked as he took a sullen, unresisting Sherlock by the arm and led him down the hall. "And what happened to the alarm you were supposed to set on your phone?"

Stopped nervously outside the bathroom door, sheepishly Sherlock muttered, "I forgot."

"You forgot, or you purposely neglected to do it?" John prompted him.

The closest to an answer Sherlock gave him was to look miserable and march into the bathroom with his head hung in recognition of his chastisement. Based on that look, John suspected Sherlock was ready to switch headspaces.

A moment later, Sherlock's hand also went to the back of his neck. His long fingers toyed with his curls, another sign of anxiety that tended to be more prevalent when he was Little. He glowered down at the toilet while his fingers twisted absently.

"Trousers down, please," John said.

Sherlock hesitated and made an aborted motion that looked like he wanted to shake his head in refusal. The final sign that John would have to take full control was Sherlock's other hand raising to his face, and Sherlock's thumb slipping into his mouth.

Sherlock had just given John a big, nonverbal _No,_ you _do it_ , which John had somewhat anticipated. This certainly wasn't the first time.

Both of Sherlock's arms being up and occupied left his waist clear for John to step over and undo Sherlock's belt and fly. John had his boy step completely out of his grown-up trousers now that he was in his Little space, and hung them neatly over the towel rack.

Daddy inspected the front of his baby's pull-ups for the telltale colour change that indicated Sherlock had already wet. There was a small, runny break in the ink on a smiling balloon where it was faded from urine contact.

John clucked his tongue and started carefully ripping the sides of Sherlock's pull-up open. "You've had to go for a really long time, haven't you."

Sherlock hummed a noise around his thumb that might have been in the affirmative.

The amount in the pull-up was so small that John suspected Sherlock hadn't even noticed the leak. It went in the trash anyway since they couldn't resecure the sides.

(Sherlock had tried once, with heavy-duty packaging tape, and John had needed scissors to get him out.)

"All right, come on..." John tried to coax Sherlock into position, but Sherlock refused to move either hand to hold himself.

So, instead, John manoeuvred Sherlock to sit and tucked the necessary bits into the bowl for him.

When liquid started hitting porcelain, it startled Sherlock back into awareness. His eyes went wide as he realised John had gotten him onto the toilet after all. Dropping his thumb to brace himself on the sink, he hurriedly began to stand up, mindless that the flow was still coming.

"Sherlock, no!" Luckily, John was close - and quick - enough to catch him before any of it could spill over the seat.

He dove forward and leaned one arm heavily into Sherlock's middle, pinning him to the potty. He had to get on his knees to keep his balance when Sherlock continued to push back.

Struggling to get up, Sherlock growled, "Up! Want up!"

"Sherlock, you have to finish--"

"NO POTTY!"

" _Yes_ , potty. Stay. there," John gritted.

"NOOO!" Sherlock hollered. He kicked at the floor for emphasis, smacking his thigh into John's armpit and nearly dislodging him.

 

* * *

 

_Meanwhile, downstairs..._

 

Mrs. Hudson: Oh dear. I hope they're using a safeword.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, the heavy trickle died away. The dominant sounds in the cramped bathroom were of both men catching their breath and of Sherlock's ragged, unsuccessfully stifled crying.

John leaned back, rubbing Sherlock's belly, and tried to soothe him, "Okay, I know. You're finished now."

Sherlock sniffled wetly and whined, "You're mean."

John sighed, trying not to take the words too personally.

Big or Little, Sherlock hated, absolutely hated, anyone else trying to control what went into or out of his body. Bottle-feeding and appealing to his Littleness had been one of the few ways John found to get the skinny man to eat, but even that method had its limits. And when it came to the other end of things, John still hadn't figured out a failproof way to get Sherlock to deal with it healthily.

Diapers worked best, except for the unfortunate fact that John couldn't always be at home when Sherlock needed a change. Sherlock having to change himself never left him in the best of moods, either, as it was a blatant reminder that Daddy wasn't around.

The pull-ups were John's alternative. Sherlock was willing to try at first, but still hadn't warmed up to the idea that pull-ups meant he still had to use the toilet. Given Sherlock's resistance, John counted himself lucky he hadn't yet needed to clean up a completely soaked pull-up.

To complicate things, Sherlock had different standards for urine and solids. He refused to do the latter in a diaper, and gave John hell when it came to doing the former in the toilet. John had even caught him weeing in the bathtub outside of actual bath-time just to avoid it.

John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock's thankfully dry trousers. The input side of all this was why Sherlock was wearing pull-ups this week in the first place. The case/post-case starvation/binge cycle had, on multiple occasions now, led to minor but uncontrollable bouts of diarrhoea for the detective, making disposable diapers or pull-ups an occasionally necessary safety measure in order to save Sherlock's collection of actual adult underpants from depletion.

John truly wanted to train better toilet habits into Sherlock, but lately the baby in him seemed to be railing against the 'big boy' responsibility harder than usual.

"Can Daddy put a diaper on you after we get you cleaned up?" John asked sweetly. He was careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice, as Sherlock looked like he was contemplating clocking John in the chin.

A deflated little noise from the back of Sherlock's throat was all he got in response, then Sherlock's thumb was back in his mouth.

Since he was sure Sherlock would stay Little for a while, John made sure to ask if the Petri dish by the microscope needed to be put away.

"Fwidge," Sherlock mumbled around his thumb.

"Got it. Covered or uncovered, love?"

It took Sherlock a moment to think. "Covw'd."

By the refrigerator rules set down by John and Mrs. Hudson, all the Petri dishes stored in there needed their lids on, but a 'covered' one meant the experiment required a completely airtight seal for storage, so cling film would additionally go under the lid.

"Okay." John used a hand on Sherlock's knee to lever himself off the floor. "You sit there while I put it away, and I'll be right back to clean you off."

He didn't bother asking Sherlock to try unbuttoning his shirt in the meantime. For the mental age Sherlock was currently at, that would prove too frustrating an exercise.

 

* * *

 

After some nose-blowing and a short assisted rinse in the tub, John guided his little baby to the bedroom for diapering.

"Toilet stupid," Sherlock complained sourly, on his back with his legs in the air.

John fished a clean diaper out of the well-hidden supply stack and shot back, "Yeah, yeah, I know. That's why you're getting a nappy... Lift up your bottom."

He sprinkled a teeny amount of baby powder into the diaper before snugging it up around Sherlock's waist and fastening the tapes.

Patting the front of the diaper and sitting on the bed beside Sherlock, John quipped, "So, what is it you've got against the toilet, hm? What did it ever do to you?"

Sherlock met his eyes for only an instant before rolling over and burying his face in John's hip.

"Toilet stupid," Sherlock repeated.

"Right..." John sighed hopelessly and rubbed Sherlock's back.

 

 

* * *

 

The next time it became necessary for John to grudgingly make a phone call to Mycroft, thanks to Sherlock running off for a day while high, they were about to ring off when John added as an afterthought,

"Hey, I was curious... This is, um, definitely a weird question..."

Mycroft's interest was audibly piqued. "Yes, go on..."

John steeled himself and spat it out, knowing there could be no 'never-minds' once Mycroft had an inkling something was up at 221B, "Do you know of any reason Sherlock would have an aversion to using the toilet? I mean, just peeing in it like a normal person. God, I know that sounds... It's not like he's--"

"Going out of his way to urinate in the bathtub instead?" Mycroft finished in a knowing tone.

John blinked. "Er, yeah, actually that's exactly it. Habit of his, I take it?"

John hadn't really found out about it until they'd started with the age-play, so he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't simply a defiant act stemming from Sherlock's regressed side.

"Yes, for a long time," Mycroft drawled. John could picture him kicking back in his cushy office chair.

"So, is there any reason...? Or is it just to push my buttons and horrify our landlady."

Mycroft cleared his throat and elaborated, "Quite the Pavlonian reason, indeed. I've heard our parents tell a particular story about his experience with... well, you know, potty-training as a child... I'm sure Sherlock's 'deleted' it consciously. Supposedly, while he was being taught to go standing, the toilet seat wasn't pushed back far enough and fell. He stood too close, and it caught him on the way down."

John winced in sympathy, both at the story and at Mycroft's willingness to tell it.

"Okay... That explains a lot, I guess."

John said goodbye, glad for Mycroft not trying to draw out the conversation any longer.

He tapped his mobile's disconnect button and turned around to peer at the door to Sherlock's room, where he'd shut the unwashed, still residually drugged detective to wait for him and think about what he'd done.

John trained his ears on the other end of the hall for a minute to make sure Sherlock wasn't acting up, then turned back to the sitting room window and tapped through his contacts list until he found Molly Hooper's number.

They'd be needing a babysitter for sure this week.


	2. At the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much fluff. Coincides with Chapter 1 of Sherlock's Little Blog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written just last night, and I broke out the booze toward the end, so my hearty apologies if it's lacking. Completely unedited, un-spellchecked, un-beta-read, etc. Hot off the press, finished shortly after five a.m. (Edit: typos fixed. I found a few spots where my missing H key became problematic.)

"Ooh," Sherlock made an intrigued, breathy exclamation, almost too quiet for John to hear, and stopped in his tracks.

John turned around on the heavily-wooded nature trail to look back at Sherlock. They were headed up a slight incline with a bit of a drop off to the left-hand side, and Little Sherlock lagged behind John for having constantly been peering down around his feet in order to stay safe.

Not that the path was truly dangerous; it was plenty wide, and Sherlock stayed roughly to the centre of it. Just, in Toddler Mode, Sherlock could be over-cautious.

It was the middle of the day on a weekday, so John saw no one when he glanced around to make sure they were out of earshot.

"What is it, baby?" John asked his little one.

They were on the second half of the hiking loop, and John was eager to get Sherlock indoors before he got a chance to sunburn. He knew Sherlock would want to spend time on the swingset before they left, and the park's swings were in a relatively sunny spot. He'd dressed Sherlock for the balmy summer temperature, in a tee shirt and cute khaki shortalls, so their outing had to be managed around the delicately-estimated timeframe in which Sherlock's exposed skin would be safe.

Sherlock pointed to the dirt, stone, root, and moss path under his colourful Velcro-closure shoes and said, "Frog, Daddy!"

John picked his way back down to Sherlock and peered down. Sherlock squatted to helpfully point closer to his frog.

"Ah... I see, love." John stood back a bit to give the creature room and corrected, "That's a toad."

"Toad?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yup. A tiny one, too. He's probably just a baby. Like you."

John smiled fondly as Sherlock blushed.

Sherlock cupped his hands and made some wafting, shooing motions over the tiny toad, urging it in whispers, "Go on! You don't want someone to step on you, baby toadie. Go! Go!"

John surreptitiously covered his smile with one hand to make sure he didn't laugh too loudly.

Slowly but surely, the toad took the advice and hopped a few times in the direction of the drop-off into the creek.

"Go on..." Sherlock faithfully herded it all the way to the grass at the edge of the path, then stood and beamed at his Daddy.

"Okay, now we can keep going," John said, patting his little boy on the back. "We're getting closer to the swings."

Sherlock clapped, gave an excited little jump, and ran ahead a bit. But, as usual for his Little headspace, he didn't run very far before he felt the need to check that Daddy was still behind him, and wait patiently for Daddy to catch up.

* * *

"A'nuvver toad!" John heard Sherlock call, again from behind him.

This time, when John turned around, he saw Sherlock already actively inspecting the toad and poking around it with a stick. Or, at least, so he assumed. Sherlock was crouched behind a large stump sprouting from the middle of the path, so John couldn't quite see what he poked at until he backtracked to Sherlock.

There was indeed another toad, and this time much bigger. It must have been its obvious adult status that made Sherlock more confident about interacting with this one. He nudged the end of his stick at the toad's legs, and behind it, trying to get it to hop.

The toad wasn't having any of it, though. It appeared to John to be tapping into its self-preservation instincts, keeping stock still in the face of a playful predator.

John tried in a tactful, paternal tone, "Let's not poke at him, Sherlock. I'm sure he doesn't think that's nice."

"I'm trying to get him to hop!" Sherlock explained. "He hopped before when I poked him, but now that he's up against the stump he won't."

"He's cornered," John pointed out gently. "You're probably scaring him."

Biting his lip tersely, Sherlock huffed through his nose and frowned down at the toad, seeming insulted that the toad might be afraid of him. After a long moment to think, he gave the toad one good scoot with the stick, waited, and, when the toad didn't dare move, set the stick down in a nook amongst the stump's roots and drew back a bit to watch.

He'd observed the toad flinching its eyes when he'd been prodding it, but had needed Daddy to point out what it meant. Sherlock didn't really want to scare the toad. It made no sense that the big, grown-up toad would be more scared of him than the little baby one, but maybe it was scared of the stick. Maybe the stick felt like a bird's claw or something, especially since he'd been nudging it mostly at the toad's backside where it couldn't see?

John stood by patiently as Sherlock waited for the toad to hop on its own.

Eventually it decided it was safe enough to creep around the stump a ways. Sherlock cautiously followed it until it edged itself under a broad, green, fallen tulip tree leaf and disappeared from view.

Sherlock closed and opened his fingers in a childish wave and disappointedly murmured, "Bye-bye, Toad."

John beckoned him to follow back up the path again. "We've got to get going too, Sherlock. You still want to play on the swings, right?"

"Yes!"

Like a shot, Sherlock was up and walking at John's side. It wasn't very far now to the paved path along the road through the centre of the park. Once they reached that, it was a left turn and less than five minutes more until the picnic pavilion and the swingset.

"Have I been a good boy today, Daddy?" Sherlock asked shyly as they approached a steep uphill bit.

John picked his way up at an easy pace, aiming for the well-trodden, dirt-packed steps contained by the worn arcs of old, strong tree roots peeking out from the eroded slope.

"Hm, well... I think you could've been nicer to that poor toad back there."

"But I _was_ nice!" Sherlock protested.

John pointed out, "I don't think he liked being poked around."

"But, I didn't hurt him or anything. I just... bumped him a little bit to see if he would move."

John could hear the pout without having to turn around to see it.

"I know," Daddy said patiently, "but it makes toads very scared when they see something much bigger than they are hovering over them. They think they're in danger because the bigger animal wants to eat them."

"But I wasn't going to eat him," Sherlock defended himself petulantly. "And the baby one wasn't scared! I didn't hurt either of them."

"No, you didn't hurt them," John agreed. "But how would you feel if a big, scary animal was up in your face and wouldn't go away, hm? Like a dinosaur or something?"

Big or Little, Sherlock had to argue his point when scientific facts were in dispute. "Some dinosaurs were tiny," he informed his Daddy, "though it's not really established whether what we know as dinosaur skeletons aren't misarticulated and misinterpreted. Back in--"

"Okay, maybe that wasn't a great example," John interrupted.

"I could've accidentally killed the toad, but I was very careful and I didn't," Sherlock pointed out, fishing for approval.

"That's true," John hesitantly affirmed.

"... So I was a good boy for not killing them?"

Unseen by Sherlock, John rolled his eyes. _Okay_ , he'd give in.

He sighed, "Yes, Sherlock. You were a good boy for not killing the poor toads, but you still scared them a bit."

John felt the lankier man bump into his side. He looked over and saw Sherlock's eyes, so bright in the sunlight filtering through the lush summer foliage, searching his face.

Helpless but to smile reassuringly at his insecure boy, John slung an arm around his shoulders and rephrased, "You're a very good boy, my little Sherlock, and I love you very much."

Sherlock ducked his head, bashful under the much-craved praise, and John used the opportunity to kiss the top of Sherlock's head.

"Hey, look," John pointed ahead of them a second later, "I can see the road up there. We're not far from the swings now."

Sherlock grinned. John could feel the happy excitement rolling off him.

"Will you drink a bottle for me when we get back to the car?" John wheedled.

Since Mycroft caught wind of their playtime, he'd been generously eager to supply discreet transportation to Little Sherlock's favourite haunts. On his own, John would never have thought to buy a car when work and the pubs were so close to Baker Street. The car stayed with Mycroft, or with whomever the driver was that worked for Mycroft, but a simple text from John's phone could have it waiting at the door within twenty minutes on any day of his and Sherlock's choosing.

"Bottle in car?" Sherlock parroted quizzically.

"Water," John elaborated, "'so you aren't dehydrated from all the walking we just did."

Sherlock linked their pinkie fingers together and swung his arm. "Mm... Okay."

"Good," John said.

"Busytown when we get home?" Sherlock asked.

John chuckled. "What, all this peace and quiet getting to you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked sidelong at Daddy. He didn't like being made fun of.

"Okay, we can do Busytown," John told him. "Do you want the DVD or a story?"

"Story?" Sherlock suggested. He liked it when Daddy asked him to find and point out things on the page, and impressing Daddy with how well he could spot things.

"Sure." Wisely, John refrained from mentioning that he would be trying to put Sherlock down for a nap first thing when they got home. If all went according to plan, Sherlock would go down easily after their hike of what must have been five miles, and he would get his story when he woke up.

If John tried to fit the story in before the nap, he was pretty sure he'd be dealing with a mutinous lapful of whining, cranky consulting detective before the book was through. Better to read it to a well-rested, refreshed, and pliant little boy who had the patience to focus until the end like he wanted to. When it came to engaging books like the Busytown series, Sherlock got upset if he fell asleep during the story and would usually insist John reread it to him after he woke up. John finally realised it was so much easier to simply make Sherlock wait until he'd gotten his sleep.

"There they are!" Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet and pointed to the swingset in the distance. The area was thankfully deserted. The few cars parked behind the mowed sports field belonged to people who were probably walking far down the other direction, along the two-mile circuit that passed by the protected marshlands.

"Okay," John encouraged him, "go ahead, I'll be there in a minute."

He took his time leisurely and watched Sherlock skip all the way to the sunny swinging spot. Sometimes Sherlock began swinging without him, but this time Sherlock sat bouncing his bum in the plastic blue swing until John arrived and gave him a few good, strong pushes.

They played on the swings almost a half-hour before John caught Sherlock yawning.

"Time for your bottle, then?" John suggested, getting off his swing and carefully catching hold of the chains on Sherlock's to slow him down.

Sherlock looked a teeny bit miffed, but yielded. "Okay, Daddy."

Sherlock obediently waited for the swing to stop completely before he hopped down. He followed Daddy to their parking space, where Daddy used his extra key fob to unlock the doors. Mycroft's appointed driver sat at a nearby picnic table, engrossed in what might either have been a popular novel or a top-level-clearance dossier. It was thick enough to be difficult to tell which.

Paper window shades in the already heavily tinted windows kept the car surprisingly cool, and John and Sherlock settled comfortably into the backseat.

John fished the baby bottle of distilled water out of their diaper bag before letting Sherlock crawl across his lap and lie back. Once his baby was settled, supported in the crook of John's arm, John offered him the nipple.

Sherlock latched on and suckled with a small smile on his lips the entire time he drank. It felt so nice to be held by Daddy at the end of a long walk. He felt a bit sweaty, but knew that Daddy would take care of that when they were home. It would be Daddy's decision whether he bathed Sherlock before of after his nap, probably depending on how tired he thought Sherlock appeared.

In point of fact, Sherlock started to fall asleep right there in the car, almost as soon as he was done with his bottle. John slid aside a panel on the back of the key fob and pressed a special button that rang the driver's mobile.

A speaker built into the rearview mirror brought the driver's voice through, "Ready to go, Dr. Watson?"

"Yes," John said in the direction of the mirror, "whenever you are."

"Right there," came the reply.

In a minute, the car was pulling slowly out of the park and they were on their way home.

John watched the trees roll by until they reached the city. Still lying in his lap, Sherlock tried to stave off sleep for as long as possible by keeping occupied rubbing John's forearm.

Pretty soon, Sherlock found himself in their bed, still in his dungarees, drifting in and out of sleep. He wiggled his toes, noting that Daddy had removed his shoes and socks. He could also hear Daddy nearby, in the room for just a few minutes to put away some freshly laundered clothes, from the sound of it.

Humming sleepily, Sherlock stretched and felt a leaf stuck in his hair crinkle between his head and the headboard of the bed. Daddy must have left it there on purpose.

Oh well, it would be gone at bathtime for sure. Daddy was thorough when he wanted to be.

John smirked when Sherlock relaxed and started snoring. The laundry finished, he went to put Mrs. Hudson's basket back in its place and to putz around on his blog until he deemed it time to wake his darling little rascal.

 _"Trailing mud and twigs and fireflies..."_ he thought of his boy; a line from one of their more big-boy-time storybooks, _The Hobbit_ , springing to mind.


	3. Ah'fee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roughly correlates to Chapter 2 of SLB, though the coffee fight is a bit of an ongoing thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The past few months, I've been working on a pair of new AB Sherlock fics on top of the reconstruction work I'm doing on my older WIPs. (I'm facing a lot of coding incompatibility issues with files I salvaged from the PC that croaked in January.)
> 
> I'm trying to keep the two new ones as brief as possible so that I can post them ASAP, so look for those coming soon. :3
> 
> In the meantime, this came to me as a tidbit I considered adding to "Loom", but I didn't have the patience to wait until I'd completed recoding work on it to add this on. So for now it goes here instead. Enjoy!

John carefully sat down in his armchair with his morning coffee, keeping an eye on Sherlock to be sure the little one kept his distance from the hot drink.

Sherlock, smelling what it was, reached up with both hands to receive the mug, excitedly demanding, "Ah'fee!"

John tutted and explained, "No, Sherlock, this is Daddy's coffee. You're too small to drink this sort of stuff, remember?"

There was a wibble of lips, misting of eyes, and then Sherlock threw himself face down on the rug at John's feet and stayed there.

It wasn't ten seconds before the baby decided his strop wasn't garnering enough attention and required added sound effects. Mournful noises rose from the floor.

With a put-upon sigh, John hefted himself out of his chair, stepped around the moaning ball of consulting detective and surrounding minefield of toy blocks, and trod back to the kitchen. He took his mug along with him, just to be safe.

There was still hot water left in the kettle, thank goodness. Scrounging up milk, a sippy cup, and some cocoa, John quickly whipped together a slightly under-sweetened coffee substitute.

He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's forlorn whimper into the sitting area rug.

In many ways, Sherlock's toddler headspace was more difficult than his very little baby headspace. The detective often bounced freely between the two, blurring the lines. Today, he was more toddler-ey.

Using a teaspoon, John transferred two scant sips of his own brew into Sherlock's hot chocolate.

  
  
"Here, sit up. Take that."

Sherlock sat back on his diapered bum and wiped pretend tears from his eyes. He hadn't quite worked himself up to crying yet, but had gotten close.

Daddy patiently held onto the sippy cup until Sherlock had a decent grip on it.

"There's a good boy. Daddy made you your own coffee, see?"

John ruffled Sherlock's already messy, bedheaded hair and relaxed in the armchair again.

  
Bright-eyed now, Sherlock took a hearty swig from his sippy cup, smacked his lips, and sighed in exaggerated satisfaction, "Ahhhhhhhh. Ah'feeeee."

The contented, smug smile on Sherlock's face was priceless.

John held up his mug, saying, "Cheers, mate."

He then took a long, slow sip of his own 'ah'fee' to keep himself from laughing at how serious Sherlock was about enjoying his minuscule helping of caffeine.

It was worth how sweet Sherlock acted for the rest of the morning, and the little guy even went down for his nap early, no fuss, thanks to a minor caffeine-and-sugar crash.

  
  
Washing out the sippy cup and placing it to dry beside his RAMC mug, John smiled a little smile, thinking how adorable it was that Baby Sherlock was so keen to do everything his Daddy did.


	4. "Put"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinda-sorta correlates to chapters 17/18 (winter holidays 2016) of The Blog.

 

"These had been for outside," Mrs. Hudson lamented, gesturing to the last pair of large paper bags John and Sherlock had helped bring down from her attic, "but I don't bother anymore since the big shrub out front died. They can just go back up in the attic if you can't find a place for them."

The contents of the bags were a string of holiday faerie lights with faux fir, and a scrawny, miniature, fake Christmas tree that didn't even reach John's knees.

John glanced around the now thoroughly decorated kitchen and living room, and said, "Yeah, I think we've filled the flat with all the Christmassy cheer it can hold. I can tuck this stuff away later. Let me know if there's anything from your part of the house that needs to go up too?"

"Oh, I think I used everything I had downstairs, but thank you," Mrs. Hudson answered with a smile.

John nodded in understanding and coaxed her out of the flat with a few more gentle words. He had noticed Sherlock's mannerisms changing slightly as the holiday trimmings went up and realised the detective was involuntarily slipping into Little headspace. It remained to be seen whether Sherlock was slipping into Toddler Mode or would mentally regress all the way to his tiny baby state.

They'd gotten her out the door just in the bloody nick of time, too. When John turned back, the tip of Sherlock's index finger had migrated into his mouth and there was no hint of his normal, cold adultness in his eyes.

 

Little Sherlock, sucking on his finger and looking at the lonely decorations in the bag, got an idea. He could string the lights up in his room, and even set up the small tree in there! Then those unwanted things wouldn't have to spend the holidays up the the cold, dark attic while all the rest of it was down here in the cheery warmth of the flat! The attic was a sad place to spend Christmas.

Sherlock ran from the bags, down the hall, and into his room.

"Put!" Bouncing on his feet, Sherlock looked back down the hallway at John. He popped the wet finger from his mouth and with it pointed excitedly to his bedroom window. "I put!"

"You did what, now?" John asked with trepidation, walking in and examining the window. It looked suspiciously fine, untouched.

" _Put_ ," Sherlock repeated frustratedly, pointing.

John was at a loss. He couldn't decipher yet what Sherlock wanted, but he was grateful the baby at least wasn't demanding the window to be "open", what with the frigid temperatures and the heavy, wet snow coming down outside.

"Can you show me?" John tried.

Sherlock made a long, very frustrated-sounding exhale through his nose. Then, with a curt grunt, he turned and toddled down the hall.

John peeked out the bedroom door to see Sherlock stop at the pair of bags and point to them.

"Put!" Sherlock told him, as if that would clarify things.

"Oh, I see." John guessed, "You want those put up in your room?"

His eyes lighting up with satisfaction at being understood, Sherlock nodded and agreed happily, "Put!"

With a sigh, John reminded him, "I thought you said you didn't like Christmassy stuff in your room. Are you going to give me a hard time about this when you're 'big' again?"

Sherlock ducked his head and fidgeted wordlessly, looking at John with a combination of puppy eyes and guilty pouting.

John sighed again.

He said, "Alright, we can decorate your room _if_ you can promise to Daddy that you won't fuss about there being Christmas stuff in it later. Okay? "

The smile crept back onto Sherlock's face and he nodded bashfully.

"That's a promise, right?" John checked, holding his arms out to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded again and ran to Daddy so he could seal the promise with a hug.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Sherlock will be able to keep his promise?


	5. Bwee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This currently has no corresponding chapter in the Blog fic because of technical difficulties, but that will hopefully change. 
> 
> The main SLB fic is very image-heavy, and recently Photobucket, which I use for image hosting, cut off third-party link services for their free users. I'm hoping to find an alternative hosting site soon so I can fix the broken links in the other fic, but until I get that resolved that fic is unfortunately on hold. The corresponding chapter I was going to post today was also a photo-based chapter.

  
  
John heard Sherlock letting out desperate, breathy noises as the detective climbed back upstairs following his task of retrieving their dried laundry. The fretful murmurings usually signified Sherlock having gone into a much younger headspace because something had distressed him.  
  
Usually.  
  
John sighed to his laptop as Sherlock reached their landing. It was just typical of Sherlock to use Little-space as a manipulation to excuse himself from having to perform basic chores.  
  
Except, this time, Sherlock's upset seemed genuine; not so much pretend.  
  
"Bwee..." Little Sherlock moaned, toddling up behind Daddy's armchair.  
  
"Yeah, what is it, love," John asked distractedly, finishing off his most recent paragraph for his in-progress blog entry.  
  
Coming 'round to where he could face John, a pouting - quite nearly crying - Sherlock fidgeted nervously and moaned again, "Mmmmbee?"  
  
"Where's the laundry you were supposed to bring up with you, hm?" John asked in a 'helpful', reminding tone, automatically adjusting his voice to accommodate Sherlock's Littleness without even really intending to. There was John's daddying instinct kicking in, he supposed.  
  
"Beeeeeee," Sherlock answered sadly, under his breath, unfurling the wrinkled bundle he'd had clutched to his chest.  
  
It was his brand new yellow tee shirt with a big, smiling, screen-printed bee on the front, only now with much less screen-printed bee.   
  
The bee had become terribly faded, and this was only its second time through the wash since they'd bought it.  
  
"Ohhh," John tutted sympathetically, giving Sherlock his full attention, "I'm sorry, Baby, that shouldn't have happened."  
  
"Buh," was all Sherlock got out before he completely broke down in tears.  
  
"Ohhh-kayyy," John directed him calmly and soothingly, setting the laptop aside and beckoning Sherlock to him, "come sit in Daddy's lap. There's a good boy."  
  
Gently, John took the shirt from Sherlock and tucked it out of sight on the lower shelf of the side table.  He helped Sherlock get situated across John's lap, the baby's knees hanging over the side of the armchair.  
  
"Daddy will check and make sure the other bee is still on your romper, okay?" John promised. The other piece of Sherlock's new outfit was a pair of black overalls they shortened the legs of and sewed a bee applique to that matched the shirt. Sherlock did the sewing himself, and knowing him there was no way that bee would ever fall off. "You wear the shirt under that bee anyway, where no one can see it, so it's okay as long as the romper bee is there, right?"  
  
" _Mmmmmmm_ ," whined Sherlock. He didn't sound entirely convinced, but at least he wasn't outright contradicting John. There was some hope that Sherlock would be able to live with just one bee.  
  
"... And you've got bees on your socks," John reminded him.   
  
Sherlock had picked out the knee-highs instead of the mid-calf version, because they had more bees and more honeycombs on them.  
  
"Mm-hm," Sherlock agreed, still sounding depressed. He sniffled loudly right next to John's ear.  
  
Nonverbal already. This was shaping up to be a hard drop.  
  
John tried to check, "Are you a very little baby right now? Am I going to have to put you in nappies?"  
  
Sherlock wriggled a bit in order to hide his face in John's neck, and whimpered pointedly.  
  
Bouncing him on his knee a bit, John said, "I guess that's a yes. How about you go fold the laundry and bring it up, like you were supposed to do, and while you do that Daddy will set up your Little stuff. Yeah?"  
  
At first the baby just sat in John's lap like a mournful lump, trying to decide if he was being dismissed for being too needy and should be even sadder.  
  
Wordlessly, Sherlock slid off his lap and slowly toddled in the direction of the stairs. He looked back to John uncertainly with shining, wet eyes, sucking on the tip of his index finger for comfort, then continued on his mopey way. He took the stairs carefully, holding onto the banister with the hand he wasn't sucking on, looking for all the world like he was still honestly learning to walk. Part of it may have been more than regression, likely that his vision was blurred enough with tears that he needed to mind his footing.  
  
Baby steps... It would be a while before he returned with their clothes.


End file.
